Page 67 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

condition. But it works okay for the time being.

It runs—eventually.

As we head for Dingy Hills, the road tucked away like an afterthought

outside of Rally, I finally can see Percy relax in the passenger seat.

“I don’t need pity,” he breathes, his words cold like liquid nitrogen in

the air. “If you’re doing this out of some guilt trip, you can take me

back to the bar. I sleep just fine on that couch.”

I would like to scorn him for accusing me of having a very

understandable reaction to finding out he sleeps behind a bar, but I

don’t. Instead, I bring up the one topic I didn’t even know we would

have to address in this false scheme together.

But we’re here for support, so I should know the whole truth.

“I didn’t know you were an alcoholic,” I say simply.

His posture is rigid again, and he tilts his head to face out the

window while the more drabby homes of Rally pass us by on the

uneven gravel roads. “Yeah, well, you didn’t ask.”

“I guess that’s technically true, Percy. But still. Why didn’t you just

tell me?”

“Because it’s only been three weeks. Let’s face it. I’m on the edge of a

relapse at any minute, and it wouldn’t even be a relapse. It would be

the same behavior I’ve always had. All the way back in high school,

too. It’s not like this is new to me. I’ve had years of drinking under

my belt. Does three weeks of no whiskey really count as sobriety?”

“It does to me, but I’m not super familiar with that topic to begin

with. If you wanted to know what a workaholic is like, then I guess

that’s my vice. I have experience there.”

He chuckles to himself. “Workaholics at least get to keep their livers

in the end.”

“Yeah, but my shoulder… not so much.”

The air thins, and we both release a low and humorous exhale. As